


At Odds

by Hannelore_Grace



Series: Dynamics of Arrangement [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannelore_Grace/pseuds/Hannelore_Grace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade, an alpha, lives in a society where insubordination is punishable by institutionally mandated knotting from one's superiors. He is punished so frequently that rumors saying he <i>enjoys</i> being knotted begin to circulate.</p><p>And maybe he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Odds

Lestrade is all too aware that if he's caught in this particular shop, he'll never be able to show his face at the office again.

Oh, he's sure that Sherlock's nosy older brother already has his cameras trained right on him, enjoying the sight of his pet DI while he hunches his shoulders and tries to make meek, doe eyes at the cashier. A beta, thankfully. A scent-blind beta who couldn't discern a knot if it was shoved right up their--

“Can I help you, sir?”

A kindly, helpful beta. He makes a show of blushing and fluttering his hand over the display of silicone, rubber, and glass.

“I was just wondering, haven't you got anything...bigger?”

His blush this time isn't put-on at all. He nearly lost a cucumber last night- thank fuck for plant growth hormones- and he'd rather not take _that_ humiliating trip to the A &E.

The beta smiles and leads him back to the front counter. The shop is tidy but cramped, packed too full of toys and costumes and garishly colored whips. Lestrade's eyes barely skim over any of it, but the foreboding-looking bondage kit in the back corner is enough to make his cock twitch and his mouth water. If only...

“We don't put this stuff out on the main floor. Too much of a risk of some idiot kids grabbing it for a laugh and hurting themselves.”

The (kindly, helpful, wonderful) beta begins pulling boxes from beneath the locked counter, and Lestrade's knees go a bit weak. They're _huge_ , big enough to be intimidating but all Lestrade feels is the thrill of a challenge, the promise of fulfillment. There's everything here he could possibly want- dildos, vibrators, anal beads as large as his fist- and he struggles to keep his expression blank, keep himself from dropping to his knees and begging the cashier to use one of them on him right on the shop floor so the security cameras and mannequins can watch.

In the end, he selects a vibrator meant to be crafted into the shape of a dragon's cock or some other nonsense, but the form doesn't really matter. What's important is how heavy it feels in his hand, how long it is. He's sure that if he sat on it fully and leaned backward he'd be able to see it rubbing against the inside of his stomach, and that thought alone nearly makes him palm his cock regardless of the unwitting cashier counting out his change.

-oOo-

Lestrade _is_ an alpha. He's never once doubted that. He's got all the right hormones and pheromones and what-have-you, as well as a cock that's more than enough to make him consider the pros and cons of making a dildo shaped after his own dick. The problem is, mounting someone and just rutting away is _boring_. His orgasms come too quick, too mindlessly simple, for him to enjoy them properly. No, what he prefers is a spark of adrenaline, the rush of chemicals as his body turns pain into pleasure, the ache and burn and toe-curling warmth as he's stretched, filled, used.

The first time he was ever penetrated, he was nineteen and fucking a gorgeous beta female. He hadn't considered himself adventurous until that first sly little finger slid up into him mid-fuck and suddenly he was coming so hard all he could do was pant and give pitiful, choked grunts. One thing quickly followed another, and soon she was holding one side of a double-ended dildo, shoving the other end up into him in a hard rhythm he was meant to duplicate in his own thrusts. He'd matched her stroke for stroke, lost in his own blissed-out heaven until she had finally flipped him over and rode his cock with such lovely abandon that the sight alone was nearly enough to make him climax. What had tipped him over instead had been her bending the dildo in half and pushing the other end inside him along with the first. He'd begged her not to, screamed in pain, then blacked out as his orgasm tore through him with such force he was sure he'd had a heart attack and died.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

-oOo-

Lestrade has never been particularly good at respecting authority figures. Such is the curse of most alphas. While he really doesn't disrespect anyone in charge, he struggles at obeying any rules or orders which he find to be senseless or just flat-out wrong.

Which is how he found himself in the Chief Detective Inspector's office on only his third day as a Detective Constable, bent over the man's desk with his trousers dropped down around his ankles.

"You're new around here, aren't you?"

The line is so cliched that Lestrade struggles not to answer with a snort or a derisive comeback of his own.

"Yes, sir," is all he says, his cheek rubbing against the wood of the desk with every word.

"Well, I think you'll learn pretty quick that we don't take any sort of foolishness around the office. We're here to do a job- an important job- and that requires order and respect."

Cold hands with cold lube touch his arse, and Lestrade suppresses a moan. The punishment isn't meant to be painful. If done properly, the reprimanded party will leave with nothing but a light twinge and a firm knowledge of exactly where they belong. Unfortunately, it also isn't meant to feel good, so Lestrade bites his cheek and fights back another noise of pleasure as he is stretched open by the chief's fat fingers.

"On the floor. Present."

The order is lazy, almost bored sounding, but the disinterest just turns Lestrade on further. He quickly complies, dropping to his knees on the ground, then laying with his chest pressed into the stiff carpet. He spreads his knees as far apart as they'll go, then reaches back and spreads his cheeks as well. His face is hot with humiliation and arousal, but he hopes that the chief with misinterpret it as the former rather than the latter.

The first press inward is achingly slow, and Lestrade has to bite his cheek to keep himself calm. This is always the hardest part, the bit where his alpha sensibilities demand he fights back, demand that he throws the heavy body on top of him aside then thrust into it instead. He trembles with the effort of holding himself back, his fingers clutching tightly into his too-hot skin. The chief sets a slow pace, more than likely meant to prolong the experience so Lestrade remembers his lesson even better. Lestrade whines in response, knowing that it will be misinterpreted, knowing the chief will never guess that he's aching to be pounded into, taken like an omega slut. 

No alpha could possibly enjoy this, biology dictates. However, with each inward thrust Lestrade's body disproves that theory entirely. Warmth sparks from his insides, making his skin prickle pleasantly, and his cock is already making an effort at rising. He holds himself back, forcing himself not to meet the chief thrust for thrust as he finally begins to pick up his pace. Every snap of his hips pushes a little bit deeper, a little bit harder. Every dig of his fingers scratch just that much more into Lestrade's hips, and he knows that he'll have marks there by the time it's over. His belt will wrap around them, they'll burn as he moves, and, Christ, it'll feel so, so good.

The chief has been speaking, but Lestrade hasn't noticed, too caught up in his struggle to keep himself silent and still. Fortunately, a quick slap to his arse brings him back to the present, helps him focus on his chief's words.

“My cock feels nice, doesn't it? Just wait 'til you feel my knot. It'll fill you up, stretch you so wide you'll look like a freshly bred omega, just like you're my bitch. And you _are_ my bitch, Lestrade. Don't you ever forget that. I say jump, you jump. I say _file the fucking report by Friday_ , then you file the fucking report by Thursday. I say spread your goddamn legs, and you open up that pretty arse for me, because I'm your chief and _I_ call the shots.”

Lestrade let a sharp cry escape as the chief gave a particularly violent thrust, and it's just shrill enough to be mistaken for pain. After that the chief descends into wordless grunts and moans, fucking Lestrade's upturned arse until he finally comes with a stifled moan, his semen filling the condom he'd rolled on while his knot fills Lestrade's arse until he's sure something's going to tear. It stops swelling just after the point of being painful, and they're locked like that, Lestrade bent down submissively to his master. It's a delicious moment, enough to make him give soft whines low in his throat.

Later, he is sent back to his desk. As he settles himself cautiously on his ergonomic seat he receives knowing smirks from the other Detective Constables and Sergeants surrounding him, but they're easy to ignore.

That night, he wanks himself silly while bent over in the “present” position, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other reaching back to bury three fingers in his arse. He imagines a heavy body holding his legs apart and a deep voice telling him exactly what a pathetic excuse he is for an alpha while describing in detail how his arse looks stretched around a thick, hefty cock.

He nearly cries when he comes, elated and bereft.

-oOo-

The pattern repeats itself, as they do. Lestrade is knotted by nearly every Chief Detective Inspector in his district, as well as a couple of higher-ups. The jokes are spread in full force, but Lestrade finds he doesn't much care that he's been declared the office bicycle. He's getting results in his investigations, and despite his frequent need for correction he's advancing faster than most detectives his age. When he makes Detective Inspector, the rumors that he's sleeping his way to the top come in droves. Lestrade isn't stupid, though; he knows this is as far as he'll be allowed to advance. It's high enough that they'll be able to make good use of his above-average solve rate, but low enough that they'll still be able to put him back in place (and position) when he starts toeing lines again.

Oddly enough, this doesn't bother him.

-oOo-

The introduction of Sherlock Holmes into his life is both a blessing and a curse. Lestrade can't remember the last time he could walk without a slight limp, and frankly it's getting a bit irritating that he's taking reprimands for actions that aren't even his own. By the same token, he's never been fucked so often or thoroughly in his life. He might consider thanking Sherlock if the detective wasn't so bloody annoying.

What's worst is knowing that Sherlock has probably long ago deduced his dirty little secret. Those knowing eyes raked up and down him the first time they met, and Lestrade knew that he was fucked. The information is stored there, in that massive intellect of Sherlock's, and it's only a matter of time until he has reason to use it. Perhaps only a threat, a bit of blackmail to make Lestrade hand him over the cold cases he's been eying up, but there's also the possibility of him using it more maliciously, to knock Lestrade down in front of his entire team. Maybe they wouldn't believe him, but that's thinking generously of his subordinates and their affection for him. Regardless, knowing that Sherlock knows makes Lestrade wary of him, and he's careful not to upset whatever the delicate power balance between them is.

-oOo-

“I told you to stand down.”

The words are firm, but Gregson's expression is soft.

“A civilian life was in danger.”

“He put himself in danger!”

Lestrade regards him calmly, remaining stoically silent while Gregson regains his own composure. Gregson had only recently been promoted, and he'd seemed almost apologetic about it at the time. For once, Lestrade had thought that perhaps the higher-ups were gaining some sense and putting good people up top.

Perhaps he'd been mistaken.

“How are you?”

“Fit for duty.”

Lestrade ignores how Gregson's eyes look him up and down. They're not hungry or predatory as they ought to be in this situation, and the way they linger over slight bulge where bandages are visible under his shirt makes Lestrade want to take back his words, declare his leave extended, and crawl back to his flat to lick his wounds.

He doesn't.

“You know the drill.”

And Lestrade certainly does. He undresses as quickly as his shoulder will allow and drapes his clothes over the back of a chair. In deference to his injury, he is allowed to remain bent over Gregson's desk, rather than be put on the floor in the typical positioning. His stomach feels queasy when Gregson's fingers trail up and down the cleft of his arse, spreading lube in their wake.

“Queasy” could just about describe the whole ordeal. Bent over the desk like this, Gregson is too close. It's too intimate, having his breath leaving goose flesh down his neck and back. Hearing his soft pants as he rocks into Lestrade with a rhythm too much like _making love_ and not nearly enough like _fucking_. When a hand reaches around and gropes at Lestrade's flaccid cock, he quickly knocks it away and kicks at Gregson. That sort of treatment is definitely not in the approved guidelines for reprimanding insubordination, and Lestrade won't stand for it, not when his stomach is roiling and his toes are curling with something closer to disgust than pleasure. When Gregson comes and his knot begins swelling, Lestrade has to fight the urge to shove him off and beat a hasty retreat from the office.

The urge to run only intensifies when Gregson presses his lips to the gauze patched over his shoulder and murmurs, “Next time, just _stand down_.”

-oOo-

The next week, he fucks an omega for the first time in years.

Endorphins are singing through him, and he's sure he's never felt such a snug, wet cunt. Every primal instinct in his body is telling him to knot, breed, _own_ her. Her cries for more are just fuel for the fire, and he's sure that if he thrusts any harder the headboard will knock a hole through the wall.

She's shuddering through her fourth climax when he finally comes as well, though he pulls out the moment his knot begins to swell. She's not in heat, and he's not entirely lost his senses.

Though he thinks perhaps he has. It's utterly mad to be thinking of how badly he wants a cock in his arse when he's got a beautiful omega still wriggling underneath him, already vying for another go.

-oOo-

“An alpha with submissive and masochistic tendencies, how...unique.”

Lestrade's nostrils flare and he attempts to scent out this posh bastard's orientation to throw it back at him. He can't discern any one distinctive scent, though. Probably he's wearing pheromone blockers then. Expensive stuff, that. His resentment of the man only notches up higher.

“A government employee with a superiority complex and more money than sense, how typical,” he tosses back, his upper lip curling in distaste. For all his abnormalities, he still knows how to behave like an alpha when confronted with a situation that demands it. He hasn't lost that much of himself. Yet.

“There's no need for aggression and posturing, Detective Inspector. I was simply making an observation.”

“After kidnapping me from the streets. Sorry if I'm not inclined to drop on my knees and worship your powers of observation.”

“And what if I told you I had something else you could get on your knees and worship?”

The innuendo feels like a slap, for more reasons than one. Coming from the man in front of him, the words are silky smooth and alluring in their sound, but the implication stings.

“I won't be your _bitch_. Now piss off. I'm sure you can afford to pay someone else off if you're so keen for a shag.”

“I'm only suggesting an arrangement which would be mutually beneficial. I find myself in a similar predicament.”

For the first time, Lestrade thinks that he sees the man squirm, and that is enough to turn some of his anger into curiosity. Not quite enough to make him relent, however.

“Listen, I don't even know your name and here you are accosting me in a parking garage.”

“My apologies. My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

Once again, Lestrade is struck by the sensation of being dealt a verbal slap. While he's sure there are thousands of Holmeses in the city of London alone, the vaguely familiar bone structure and complete lack of social propriety is enough to make him suspicious.

“You wouldn't happen to be a relative of Sherlock Holmes, would you?” he asks, tone now wary.

“He's my younger brother, in fact.”

“Oh, for _fuck's sake_.”

-oOo-

Lestrade confronts Sherlock about his brother the next time he brings him to poke around a crime scene. Sherlock has his pet alpha with him, and Lestrade is slightly irritated by the way he insists on nudging closer to them as their conversation becomes more heated.

“You didn't tell me you have an older brother.”

“It was irrelevant.”

“Not when he's spying on me!”

The look he receives from Sherlock is withering, and Lestrade desperately wants to hit him. The alpha- John Something- seems to sense it and pushes in even closer.

“Something going on here?” he asks conversationally, but Lestrade isn't fooled. John practically reeks of needy pheromones, and it gives him a sick sense of glee to think that Sherlock won't ever reciprocate whatever it is he's feeling.

“Nothing,” is all he says, though, maintaining at least a rudimentary image of professionalism. He's been avoiding Gregson for weeks now; he'd hate to have that streak cut thanks to Sherlock and his bloody lunatic of a brother.

“Lestrade is displeased because my brother propositioned him in his usual heavy-handed methods. No doubt using the same vehicle and parking garage he used in his attempts to bribe you, John. Mycroft has a penchant for recycling his own melodramatic stagings. Boring. Though you might want to watch out for the CCTV outside your flat. That's another old trick he just _loves_ to repeat.”

Sherlock leaves Lestrade with a swish of his coat, and John follows in his wake, shooting Lestrade a sympathetic look.

-oOo-

He buys his sex toys at the local shop, rather than order them discreetly off the internet. He tells himself it's because he'd rather not have his neighbors accidentally receiving and opening his boxes of myriad anal stuffers, but somehow he can't quite bring himself to believe the lie. Probably because he knows it's a lie and really all he wants is the fizzle of nerves as he leaves the shop, certain that someone is watching. Maybe even one specific someone.

He drags his coffee table from the center of his living room floor and replaces it with his dragon cock, slapping it down on the wood flooring so the suction cup sticks firmly. He drops a pillow next to it and kneels, facing the wall with his arse toward the wide, open window. Lube is slicked up and down the massive vibrator, and for a moment Lestrade considers rising to close the drapes. Only for a moment, though.

Grabbing hold of the toy with one hand, he shifts backward until he feels the tip of it tickling against his entrance. He sinks downward just a bit, nudging the tip of the toy mere millimeters into himself. Pausing to catch his breath and gather his nerve, he pushes down. It's slow going; the toy is wide enough that the stretch it almost too much so he's constantly having to pull back upward, fucking himself in shallow thrusts until he can sink down just a little bit more. He's only sat halfway down on it when he has to fold his arms behind his back and grip his forearms in each hand to stop himself from stroking off his cock. He wishes they were bound, but this is too new and dangerous to add any extra elements. Perhaps next time.

He squirms and braces himself, then pushes down harder. He moans as he feels the toy's contours stretching him, then sloping inward, then widening once again. It's maddening, that tickling sort of sensation as hard silicone rubs against his insides. After the whole toy is almost inside him, he stops to catch his breath then fumbles to find the short cord attached to the vibrator.

One breath in, he finds the switch.

One breath out, he widens his stance.

One breath in, his fingers click the switch, he thrusts down.

One breath out- more like a shout.

He fucks himself hard and fast on the toy, his gasping pants the only sound to accompany the buzz of the vibrator buried deep inside his arse. And, fuck, it's just as big as he'd imagined it would feel. Possibly more so. He imagines how it must look, the cock ramming up into him, never fully coming out of his body because it's just too big. 

Choking back cries of pleasure, he loses himself in whatever fantasies his mind brings to him. He imagines a hand curled in his hair, pushing him down every time he manages to rise up onto his shaking knees. He imagines a voice, low but firm, meant to be obeyed unquestioningly. It tells him he's a good slut. It tells him he'll be rewarded later for putting on such a nice show for his master. It tells him that next time he'll be gagged and strung up from the ceiling so he'll have no choice but to submit and take whatever toys master decides to shove up his arse. And maybe they won't even be toys. Maybe they'll just be whatever can be found around the flat, or just his master's fist.

The thought of a pale, freckled hand pushing into him makes Lestrade whimper and squirm on the toy, his thighs clenching as he shoves down hard to make it brush against his prostate _just_ so. Groaning, he pictures a spreader bar forcing his legs apart, forcing him open for those long, clever fingers. He whines and imagines all the other things his master would use to prepare him for his fist- possibly even the handle of an umbrella. With a sharp cry, he finally allows himself to begin stroking his cock, and within seconds he is spilling himself over his fist, still imagining a cool voice telling him what a good pet he's been.

As he carefully lifts himself off the vibrator and collapses over onto the pillow that had cushioned his knees, he realizes that he is well and truly buggered.


End file.
